


Deals With Darkness

by Aemileth



Series: Consider Maeglin [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Descent into Madness, Gen, Implied mental illness, Loneliness, Stargazing, Suicidal Thoughts, Synesthesia, Unreliable Narrator, elven magic, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aemileth/pseuds/Aemileth
Summary: 'How clearly seen, her look of loathing, his condemnation for existence.The Ill-begotten.No, he held no love for the sun.'Maeglin's world is falling apart.
Series: Consider Maeglin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598929
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Deals With Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I felt the urge to write a sad Maeglin fic that incorporates some of my headcanons. I ended up writing a few more. And this is now the first in a series.

Lómion laid on the sloped roof of his father’s smithy and watched the stars. 

It was rare enough that he would find the time to engage in such a pastime, and rarer still that the spectacle would prove itself to be so grand.

The nights were very dark in Nan Elmoth, and the air surrounding their lodgings and the smithy was often too heavily saturated with his father’s magic for him to be up and about. 

But the stars shone most brightly here, in the deepest depths of the forest. 

His mother had assured him it was so. And many times, on stormy nights when the darkness swirled around and made all manner of awful noises outside, she would pull him close and whisper softly, _“The stars shine the brightest in the darkness.”_

The stars were surely bright tonight. And Lomion let his mind wander as his eyes traveled among thousands upon thousands of those soft, dazzling lights held within the vast blackness that was the sky. 

His father loved the stars. 

Lómion had many times heard him singing quiet hymns to them while he worked in the smithy or when he returned from a successful hunt. And once, when Lómion had been younger and overly fond of questions, he had asked why his father loved his mother, and his father had answered that she had reminded him of the stars.

His mother loved the stars as well, though less than his father did, and far less than she loved what she called “the sun.” 

Lómion was curious to know what exactly “the sun” was, but his mother became strange when she spoke of it. 

Her heart would beat fast, like a rabbit’s, on the edge of fright or apprehension. And her voice would take on a low tone and a quick pace. But there was something hidden in her eyes and behind that tense surface. 

Lómion would press a little further, and if he reached out gently enough, he could feel the threads of Song pulsing within her, _pale yellow,_ and he could see, sometimes clearly, the faces of those people--that family she had told him about, living in the bright, white city. And for a moment, he would feel an ache. And he knew that whatever the sun was, his mother dearly missed it.

It was the thought of the city that peaked his interest, however. And the stars momentarily forgotten, Lómion closed his eyes and tried to envision what it would look like, with its shiny stone walls, and tall white towers. _And those wondrous bright colors._

The forbidden word seemed to dance softly on his lips, and he found himself saying quietly to himself. 

_“Ondolindë.”_

His father had no love for _that tongue_ , and even less love for those who spoke it (except mother, of course). 

Lómion could remember a few times when his mother would let a word slip or exclaim when startled, and his father would stand stiffly, the way he always did when he was irritated with something, and work his jaw around things he wanted to say and thoughts he couldn't act upon. 

Lómion, watching, would catch a glimpse into his father’s fae, with its silver strings of melancholy thoughts and the blots of lingering, burgundy anger over something that happened long ago, and then, the _purplish, bruise-colored_ fear of...something cold, and awful...and _dark_.

His teeth clenched, and his head spun as he slowly opened his eyes again to the sight of far-away stars above. He gasped for breath, and, then, silently made his way down. 

***

His father had taught him long ago how to move with the grace and swiftness of a fox, stealthily creeping among wood and green-growth, over twig and leaf and pebble. 

The wood-magic pressed restlessly against his mind, urging him back to the safety of his parents’ dwelling. But Lómion felt determined. 

As he went along, he recalled the songs of counter-magic his mother would sometimes sing to tame the forest and even the animals when out walking. 

The words were of the forbidden language, but Lómion remembered them well enough; his mother had whispered them often.

And so, he skipped along the paths and sang in his mother’s tongue, feeling as though he could be one of those ancient heroes who had fought against great monsters and traveled to distant lands filled with treasure and magic. 

And the more he thought about it, the darkness seemed so much smaller than he was.

He was Lómion, son of Twilight, defeater of shadows, cloaked in the moon and stars, and he would bring back the sun to his mother for her to keep in a locket he would make for her. 

The sun came from the sky, his mother had told him once. _Closer to us than the stars are, and much younger than they._

_Younger_ meant that the sun was less clever than the stars, like how the little rabbit kits Lómion had once caught in the garden were less clever than the full-grown ones his father trapped. 

The stars could not be caught, but he was fairly certain he could trap the sun if he could get up high enough.

And Lómion knew of a particularly large tree that would work wonderfully for his quest. He circled it twice, judging its height and admiring its thick, dark branches.

It seemed to go on and on, up and up, straight and steadily until lost in the cluttered canopy of the collective treetops. 

Lómion smiled graciously up and then set about to climb his way to the top.

The air was heavier up above, swirling dusty purples and blues and greys. 

Lómion’s nose began to run and his eyes watered as he pulled himself higher and higher. But he pressed himself onward and battered the misty enchantments aside with his mother’s words. 

He _would_ find sun, and perhaps when his father saw how much it made his mother happy, he would learn to love it too.

He thrust his hand up to grip the next branch, pushing against the tree bark to propel himself upward, mind spinning foggily. 

He was so close! He could feel it! _That pale yellow light, a great orb. Hot and warm...and so bright!_

The branch snapped beneath his feet, and Lomion felt briefly, a feeling of weightlessness with a cool breeze against his back and arms and legs while the forest magic spiraled above him. _Grey, blue, purple, dark, dim, dusty_

A burst of red flashed before his eyes when the ground finally rose up to catch him. And then Lómion lay breathless and motionless on the floor of the forest. 

He lay, watching with half-lidded eyes the colors and phantom-shapes twirling and twisting in the air before him. 

The darkness snaked its way forward from the corner of his vision, almost dancing as it approached. 

_Lómion, child of Twilight, Lómion, child of Darkness, Lómion, child of the forever-black, Lómion, ever alone, Lómion, lonely one. Ill-gotten._

Lómion closed his eyes and urged his mouth to form those...words...the spells...what his father taught him, _long ago, if he ever got lost in the dark._

But his head hurt, and the darkness was _laughing, and he couldn’t move! He couldn’t get up!_

He felt something encompass his body, and he stiffened in fear and clenched his eyes shut hard enough that thick reds and purples pulsed within his head. _He wouldn’t watch. He wouldn't watch as it devoured._

“Wake up, my son,” a voice uttered softly against his ear. 

Lómion startled at the familiar tone and frantically reached out to feel-- _the silver and deep violet, the subtle burgundy._ Relief flooded his head, and he relaxed limply against the chest of the one who held him. 

_Yes, I'm here. My little sharp-glance._

“Maeglin,” his father said aloud, cradling him in both arms and frowning. “What were you doing, my little one?” 

*** 

He decided, fairly early on, that he did not love the sun. 

It had its gifts and wonders, yes. Its rays of warmth falling blissfully upon his chilled flesh when they first emerged from the heavy night of Nan Elmoth, the explosion of color his eyes greedily absorbed, the dazzling splendor of his mother’s home, the great, bright city of Gondolin that was all she had promised.

But, oh, how brightly it shone upon his mother’s blood too, her deep red interlocked with venomous black. It stayed its allotted time in the heavens, sank to the sound of her screams, and then rose again, heedless of the silence. 

And how elegantly the pale stripes fell upon the polished white stone, where the king, his _uncle_ pronounced his father’s doom. How well the light reflected off his father’s silver locks before vanishing into the depths of the black Caragdûr.

And day after day, the sun shone high above, and held him in light for public inspection and observation. The way his eyes glinted darkly, _his father’s eyes, they whispered._ His frown, his pale sun-torched skin, how _unalike_ to their kind he was, how _dark seeming._

How clearly seen, _her_ look of loathing, his condemnation for existence. _Ill-begotten._

No, he held no love for the sun.

***

“I do not know why you act this way,” she said, one day, when it happened to be just the two of them sitting in what once had been his mother’s room. 

Maeglin frowned as he looked up from the book he had been reading. 

Her hair glittered in the sunlight, _pale yellow, sweet and flowing._ Her eyes were disquiet waters, _cold and harsh and wrathful._

“You are never happy. It frightens me. It reminds me of--”

_The Ice._

He knew; her eyes spoke of it even if she had never said the words aloud.

He stood and reached for her hand, mind wavering, words struggling to form upon his lips.

“Idril,” he said, hoarse and desperate and pleading. 

But she had fled from the room in a haze of _pale yellow._

*** 

He stood upon the wall too often, a foot posed to that action one could call taking a step, and dangling ever unsteadily over that great nothingness that lived far below. A step into infinity, eternity, the void. 

It was here he felt came closest to that force of power or magic which others deemed to call fate. And it was here that the words of his father would echo in harsh purple shrieks that spun like sharp ribbons around his neck and hands, digging deeper with every breath.

He had fallen once. 

Perhaps he had lost his balance and fell into the embrace of that weightless breeze by chance.

Perhaps the ribbons had pulled him down.

He did not remember.

But the vague, worried murmurs above him were a welcome respite from cold glances and hissed hidden words, if nothing more.

He came to his senses to find his uncle above him, and _her_ by the bedside, all strained smiles and mismatched emotions. 

_I am glad you are well again, Maeglin! You had us worried._

_You should be dead._

His uncle came later that night and watched him through swimming eyes that saw more his mother than himself.

“Why did you jump, Maeglin?” he asked, through deep green ink that threatened to smother the room. “You know you belong here. Please believe that.” _You must belong. You must! How could you leave me?_

His uncle clung to the statement like a treasured letter or some other item kept for sentimental reasons rather than the practical. And then he buried his face in his hands and wept. 

Maeglin watched in numb silence.

***

He hated the humans. The idea that they were allowed to live. The idea that they could choose to leave. He hated the fact that everyone seemed to love them, cherish them, while it was agony for him to even look at them. 

And _she_ loved the human, wrapped her _pale yellows and sweet pinks_ around him, and clung to his embrace regardless of _everything that once mattered._

Then came _her_ silent warnings. _There is darkness in Maeglin. Keep away from him._

And he thought she might be right. 

_***_

He turned to his metal and made things to distract himself from the burning ache in his heart and from the pressure of those _purple ribbons_. It sealed their ideas of him being of his father’s kindred, but it couldn’t be helped. 

He helped fight on behalf of his mother’s people, beside those whose lives he knew from songs and tales of lore. He continued to invent new things and devise new concepts, he gained followers and taught, and tried to engage in his uncle's councils and courtly events. But the ache remained.

He found himself often staring at the black peak of the Caragdûr or down into the deepest depths below the city’s walls and wishing he could follow his father and mother into the Halls, away from the endless sunlight, and the hoards of _strangers_.

***

By and by, he did find a way out, his own secret passageway to freedom. 

To mine, at first. The mountains were rich. But they offered far greater things. 

He began to sneak out more and more frequently, and came to view his time away from the city as gasps of fresh air. 

As he lay in indulgent silence beneath the trees and the sky and the stars, the _purple ribbons_ felt slightly looser. 

And he dared to hope. 

***

It hurt too much to try to keep his eyes open, so he kept them closed, a hand held over them for protection. 

The Darkness chuckled in a sickly casual manner, filling the air with foul-smelling fog, and lightly brushed against his cheek. 

_Consider my offer, little L_ ó _mion. It is, afterall, in your best interest._

Maeglin shivered and clenched his teeth in both rage and fear. 

_Do not call me that!_

The Darkness laughed again, a loud, booming sound.

_You think to tell me what I can and cannot do, elf?_

Maeglin cried out as red filled his vision, and claws of steel raked across his flesh. 

“You should listen, Maeglin,” the other voice purred in silky golden tones, easing the pain gently by some strange magic. It paused, considering, then reached out and faintly caressed his mind. “You are hurting. And that hurt runs so deeply, doesn’t it?” 

Maeglin shrank away from the touch and covered his ears tightly. 

_Leave me! Or tear into my flesh, I do not make deals with darkness!_

The Darkness tugged gingerly on one of the purple ribbons, disinterested. _You see, my little, impertinent one, I offer you what you desire._ It leaned forward, smiling gleefully.

_I offer you_ her. _And not only that! But her love and affection as well. Something that we both know should have been yours in the first place._

“You are very lonely, Maeglin,” the golden one said, and Maeglin, startled by the blunt statement, opened his eyes. 

The golden being smiled sadly, an expression that suggested understanding and spoke of a desire to heal and to mend and to fill up. 

The Darkness pressed ever so gently upon his chest and against his heart.

_Idril and her love could mend that emptiness. You would rule with her by your side. Safe. Happy._

“You feel so out of place there, Maeglin. You do not understand them, nor they you. And they have been hurting you,” spoke the golden creature, so alike the sun in some ways, _that pale yellow, golden warmth,_ but no burn, nor harsh light. _Safe._

 _I offer you Idril,_ the Darkness whispered as it fingered another purple ribbon. _Or I will drag you down and lower, son of twilight, leave you to wither away in absolute solitude, and you will rot away in despair and pain._

“No one would come for you, Maeglin. No one would even care.”

_You are alone here, son of twilight._

“I know!” Maeglin screamed, curling in on himself and digging his nails into his hair. _“_ I know!” 


End file.
